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A COLLECTION OF 

SCARCE ACTING TRAGEDIES, COMEDIES, DRAMAS, 




Spencer's Boston Theatre. 



-^■' »« 



Price^ 12 1-2 Gents, each. Ten for One Dollar. 

BOUND VOLUMES, SI. 



VOL,. I. 



VOL. VI. 



20 Masks and Faces, 

21 Merry Wives of Windsor, 

22 Natin-e and Philosophy, 

23 Agnes de Vere, 

24 Shandy Ilaguire, 

VOL. IV. 

25 Wild Oats, 

26 Michael Erie, 

27 Teddy the Tiler, 

23 Spectre Bridegn-'ooin, 
29 Idiot Witness, 
:J0 Willow Copse, 

31 Matteo Falcone, 

32 People's Lawyer, 

VOL. V. 

33 Jenny Lind, 

34 Comedy of Errors 

35 Lucretia Borgia, 
.36 Surgeon of Paris. 

37 Patrician's Daughter, 

38 The Two Buzzai-ds, 

39 Shoemalier of Toulouse, 

40 Momentous Question, 



60 The Steward. 

61 Capt. Kyd. 

62 Xick of the W(X)ds. 

63 The Marble Heiirfc. 

64 Laughing Hyena. 

VOL. IX. 

65 Second Love. 

66 The Victor Vanquished. 

67 Om- Wife 

68 Dream at Sea. 

69 My Hiisband's Miiior. 
7D Yankee Land. 

71 NoraK Crcina, 

72 Good! V Nothing. 

VOL. X. 

73 The First Night. 

74 The Pake's Progres-i. 

75 Pet of the Petticoats. 

76 The Eaton Boy. 

77 Wandering Minstrel. 

78 Wanted 1000 Millinei-s. 

79 Poor Pillicoddy. 

80 Breach uf Pi-oniise. 



1 Moll Pitcher, 

2 The Forest Eose, 

3 Swiss Swains, 

4 Bachelor's Bedroom, 

5 Sophia's Supper, 

6 A Roland for an OliveF, 

7 Black-eyed Susan, 

8 John Bull, 


41 Love and Loyalty. 

42 Bobber's Wife. 

43 Happy Man, 

44 Dumb Girl of Geno.%. 

45 Wreck Ashore, 

46 Clari. 

47 Miller and his Men. 

48 Wallace. 


VOL. II, 


VOL. VII. 


9 Satan in Pai-is, 

10 More Blunders than one, 

11 Eosma Meadows, 

12 The Diunb Belle. 

13 My Aimt, 

14 Spring and Autumn, 

15 Six Degrees of Crime, 
10 Limerick Boj', '' 


49 Madelaine. 

50 Betsey Baker. 

51 The Fii-em-an, 

52 No. 1, Eoimd the Corner, 

53 Teddy Eoe. 

54 Grist to the Mill. 

55 Object of Interest. 

56 Two Loves and a Lite. 


VOL, III. 


VOL. VIII. 1 


17 Presumptive Evidence, 

18 J\Ian and Wife, 

19 The Sergeant's Wife, 


57 Anne Blake. 

58 My Fellow Clerk. 

59 Bengal Tiger. 



VOL. XI. 

81 The Mummy. 

82 The Eeview! 

83 Lady of the Lake. 

84 Still Wat/er Eims Deep. 

85 Man of Many Friends. 

86 Love in Livery. 

87 Antony and Cleonati'a. 
8-8 The Scholar. 

VOL. XII. 

89 Helping Hands. 

90 Aladdin. 

91 Trying it on. 

92 Stage Sti'uck Yankee, 

93 Young Wife & ui • 

94 Last Man, (Un.b'!a 
^^> Belles' Stratagem, 
^6 Crinoline. 

VOL. XIII. 

97 Old and Young. 

98 A Family Failing. 

99 The Young Scamp, 

100 The Adopted Child. 

101 The Turned Head. 

102 A Match in the Dark, 

103 Advice to Husbands. 

104 Ea'fiaelle. 

VOL. XIV. 

105 Ruth Oakley. " 

106 The Br tish Slave. 

107 Siamese Twins, 
103 A Life's Ransom, 
109 Sent to the Tow jr. 
llOGiralda, 

111 Time Tries all, 

112 Ella Rosenburg. 

VOL. XV. 

■ 113 Somebody Else. 

; 114 Warlock of the Gleu 

i 115 Zelina, 

116 Ladies' Battle, 

117 Art of Acting, 

118 Beatrice. 

119 The Lady of the Liona, 

120 Neighbor Jackwood, 



WILLIAM Y. SPENCE:K, 
PUBLISHER, 

1J38 "W-A-SHCIIDTCS-TOlSr S-T-, 
(Corner ofWater St., Upstairs,) - - - BOSTON. 



SPENCER'S BOSTON THEATRE...=..No. CCII. 



.4"*!/" 4s 



MARY'S BIRTHDAY; 



OR, 



THE cY:isri 

IN THREE ACTS, 



WRITTEN ET 

GEORGE H. MILES, Esq,, 

OF BALTIMORE, MD., 
Author of Mohammed — De Soto — Senor Valiente — Slight and Bloomy t 

WITH 

ORIGINAL CASTS, COSTUMES, AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE 

BUSINESS CORRECTLY MARKED AND ARRANGED, BY 

MR, J. B. WRIGHT, STAGE MANAGER HOLLIDAY 

STREET THEATRE, BALTIMORE, 



BOSTON: 
WILLIAM V. SPENCER, 

128 Washington St. (cob. op Water, up stairs.) 

Entered, according to Act of Congrees, in the year 1858. by Georok H. MitES, in ths 
Clerk's Offlee of the Distriet Court of the United States for Maryland* 



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6 Mary's birthday. [act i. 

Haw. Robbing a friend to save a seovmdrel. Indorsing for the 
romantic and saintly Syrian convert, whose voice was as a trumpet 
of the Lord at Elder Evans's last night — at Elder Evans's last night ; 
and, would you believe it — — 

Lord, I believe any thing of converts. So much for last night — 
proceed. And this morning ? Gently ; proceed ; don't omit the 
catastrophe. 

Haw. It strangles me ; it is enormous ; past conjecture. 

Lord. "Will yoxu* note fall due to-day ? 

Haio. To-day. The fellow had the smile of a seraph. 

Lord. Then I think I can finish your story. 

Haio. Impossible. It is infamous beyond conception, infamous 
beyond expression. This morning — excuse this indignation, pardoa 
this emotion — this morning. {Chokes ac/ain.~) 

Lord. (Aside.') Hell drop in a fit. This morning my old fi-iend. 
Parson Hawthorne, couldn't find his Syrian convert, and Elder 
Evans couldn't find his %vife. 

Haw. "Who has told you ? 

Lord. Ah, parson, the past is the prophet of the future. How 
deep is the rascal into you ? 

Haw. Kascal's too mild a word. Villain, sir, every inch a villain, 
and none the less a villain for having made a rogue of me. He had 
the voice of an angel, too. 

Lord. I beg you, my dear Mr. Hawthorne 

Haw, Yes, sir, a rogue of me. I feel that whenever I put my 
name to paper, I put my hand into yoiir pocket ; but in spite of all, 
when the test comes, and the needy or stricken beg in the name of 
the Owner of all things, it seems to matter little from whose wallet 
the crust is drawn. 

Lord. Provided the crust would choke your Syrian saint ; but I 
fear that the largest amoiint of choking falls to you and Elder Evans. 
And this crust, Mr. Hawthorne, is it an extensive one, well burnt, 
done brown ? 

Haw. Five hundred — the villain ! — voice of an angel — smile of 
a seraph ! 

Lo)^d. Five hundred ? that's small. Try a Turk next time. May 
be he'll let you oif at half price, and do you the unspeakable favor 
of eloping with all the saints of your congregation. Don't droop, 
my old friend ; this is fun for me, rare E-oman fun, where beast 
springs, and sword gleams, and martyr bleeds — my only fun, and I 
am willing to pay for it. One gets so sick of shams and sweetmeats, 
of happiness and holiness. Have you never noticed how soon the 
palate, cloyed with sanctity and sugar, acquires a permanent relish 
for vinegar and woe ? Frown not, my old friend. The world calls 
me a cynic ; I must deserve the title. 

Hatv. The world does you great injustice, Mr. Lordly. 

Lord. There's Adam, there ; the gray old sexton would find noth- 
ing half sofunmj as seeing you and me toasted alive before his eyes. 
If agony were comic to him, may not a little moderate misfortune 
amuse me ? The bosom snake that struck his brain, left her fang in 
my heart. 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 7 

Haio. {Aside.) The old wound begins to bleed afresh. My son, 
remember 

Lord. Remetnber? Forget, you mean. Mr. Hawthorne, my 
brother Vernon is approaching us by this path, and I suspect that 
your daughter Alice will soon appear by that one. This is a singular 
coincidence, which happens exactly as the sun rises, and quite as 
punctually, Sundays and rainy days excepted. 

Hazo. There must be some mistake indeed. Sunrise is her hour 
for visiting the poor. 

Lord. Poor Yernon ! However, as I must speak fast, Vernon is 
betrothed, as you know, to my ward, Miss Stillworth, and as I hope 
to see them shortly united, I would suggest the propriety of cau- 
tioning Miss Alice, in her visits to the poor, against — well, too much 
charity. Let us step behind these trees, and you may shortly witness 
the coincidence I mentioned. 

Haw. Can she be so imprudent — — 

Lord, As for your Syrian saint, leave him and his legacy to me. 
It is too late, I fear, to save Elder Evans from dishonor, but it shall 
be my pride and privilege to protect your note. 

Adam. She went that way, she will come that way. As sure as 
the sun shines, she will come that way ! 

Lord. Listen to that voice of woe. Will Elder Evans watch for 
his wife, as that withered, witless wreck watches for his daughter ? 
Ah, Mr. Hawthorne, dollars and cents count little in the long sura 
of human life. Step aside ; Vernon has not seen you yet. Behind 
that laurel. 

Haw. Do they m.eet regularly ? 

Lo7'd. Judge for yourself. {Leading him off, 2 e. l. h.) 

Filter Vernon, 1 e. l. h. 

Ver. {Absorbed in thought.) I'd give my left arm to the elbow to 
have this affair with Mary Stillworth off. We are both so mortally 
sick of each other that we shudder when we meet ; and yet my wise 
brother George swears my neglect is killing her. She's frail enough, 
Heaven knows, and it's quite a meditation on death to look at her 
shoulders. But it's none of my doing. Those blessed Greek plays 
which she and George are eternally cramming have done it. What 
keeps Alice ? » 

Enter Lordly, l. h. 2 e. 

By all that's wonderful, my brother George ! What can bring his 
serene highness to the Grotto at sunrise ? George, I'll keep you in 
quail till Christmas, if you'll explain your being here at this hour. 

Lord. {Doion l. h.) To gather laurel for the day we celebrate. 

Ver. {On r. h.^ And pray what day do we celebrate ? 

Lord. The first of November, our Mary's birthday. 

Ver. These anniversaries are deuced hard to remember. — {Aside.) 
If Alice comes now, it will be awkward. 

Lord. Vernon 

Ver. {Aside.) Now for a scene. High tragedy. 



8 Mary's birthday. [act i. 

Lord. Two years ago, when first betrothed to you, Mary Still- 
worth was a blooming girl, and now 

Ver, {Aside.') St. Anthony might safely use her for a death's 
head and cross bones. — She lives on poetry, George, and that's short 
commons, you know. 

Lord. She scares me with her pale cheek and sad eyes. Your 
neglect 

Ver. My neglect ! Good Heaven, George, what cares Mary Still- 
worth about my last right and left in the swamp — or how stiffly the 
pointer pup backed Don — or how nearly I grazed life everlasting, 
as Caliph thundered down Devil's Den, hard on the fox ? What 
know I, a plain, prose brute — what know I about the Princess and 
Lippo Lippi, and Andrea, and the Casa Gmdi windows, and the 
long Rosary of Genius, that you and she are eternally telling ? 
And then, brother, between ourselves, the woman's an icicle. 

Lord. Let not her glitter daunt you — a breath can melt her. 
Tell her a tale of glory, her brown eye trembles like a hero's crest ; 
tell her a tale of sorrow, it glistens like a dewy night. An icicle ! 
Come to my library and watch her, as she sits with me. 

Reenter Hawthorne, l. h. 2 e. 

Ver. Ay, brother, as she sits with you ; but when she sits with 
me ? Ten thousand feet above me, she strikes straight for the sun, 
with, now and then, a downward glance for my benefit. If I take 
her hand, she looks like a nun ; if I approximate her lips, the North 
Pole's a furnace to her ; if I threaten her waist, she shrinks as if my 
arm were an anaconda. 

Lord. And Miss Hawthorne's waist, Verncn — But I beg par- 
don — the young lady herseK is approaching. 

Enter Alice, 1 e. r. h. 

Haw. {Coming doicn R. C.) Verily, it is my own child, my 
daughter, Alice. 

Ver. As I'm a sinner, old Melchisedek himself ! I see it all, 
George — I'm surrounded. {Retires up a little.) 

Alice. {On R. h. s., seeing both.) My father ! Mr. Lordly ! 

Hais. Mistress Alice, although an act of love and an act of charity 
are synonymous in our church service, yet it is wiser not to con- 
found them in common practice. 

Lord. {Takitig Vernon aside, L. h.) Vernon, in mercy to Mary 
Stillworth — in justice to your own honor — let this little episode 
with Alice die to-day. Whatever vows 

Ver. There are none. It was our misfortune to meet — our folly 
to love — and it is now our duty to part. But, to borrow your own 
language, brother, — the flowers do not cease to bloom because the 
ploughshare must soon pass over them. 

Haw. {Aside to Alice.) Alice Hawthorne, there is a lesson 
which youth cannot too soon be taught : love is loveliest when the 
slave of honor and duty. Choose between Vernon's attentions and 
my esteem,. 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 9 

Lord. {Aside to Hawthorne, and retiring with him up centre, l. h.) 
We have stxinned them. Let us retire. They will come to 
presently. 

Alice. {After a long pause.') Vernon, I was never so put out in 
my life. I could cry for shame ! How cruelly they misunderstood 
us ! Why, the idea of my encouraging your attentions I 

Ver. {Dropping his head.) O Lord ! — 

Alice. I mean serioiisly encouraging them — and you all the while 
engaged to another I Cruel, wasn't it ? As if any woman could do 
such a thing ! 

Ver. Yes — ah — precisely — could do such a thing. 

Alice. It is all nothing for you — ■ but imagine my agony at being 
taken for a flirt. O, it is too insulting, when one feels so perfectly 
innocent, too — for you know that I never gave you the slightest 
encouragement 

Ver. Alice ! 

Alice. Do drive that great wasp away ! A flirt ! — la flirt ? I 
would rather die than countenance such a slander. Good by. I 
shall miss your guitar and your quail suppers in the long winter 
evenings 

Ver. And before spring you will have coaxed another fool to lay 
his heart at your feet. 

Alice, And is there any better resting place for a man's heart than 
at a true woman's feet ? 

Ver. Dare you call yourself a true woman when you so flip- 
pantly disclaim our love ? 

Alice. {Starting.) Our love ! Pray when — where — how — was 
our love ever plighted ? 

Ver. When ? to-day — yesterday — daily — hourly, for months. 
Where ? here — every where — beneath the chestnuts of that hill — 
beside the sweet briers of the graveyard — above the spring that 
babbles by yonder oak. How ? by a thousand looks and words, 
that you, as well as I, remember. 

Alice. I never said I loved you. 

Ver. You swore it with your eyes — you sealed it with your lips. 

Alice. Fie, Yernon ; when you begin a flirtation, reproach not the 
weak heart that indulged you. Do your duty, as I am doing mine. 

Ver. I have but one remaining duty, and before that sun sets, it 
shall be done. Good morning. Miss Hawthorne ; I shall not fail to 
do my duty. (Vernon going ojf, l. h.) 

Lord. {Advancing.) Bravo, Vernon ! 

Ver. {Returns.) George Lordly, you have won. Your manhood 
and gold against my poverty and youth. Y^ou have won a battle, 
but take care lest you lose a heart — a brother's heart at that. 

Lord. Pshaw, Vernon, I am used to losing hearts. I once even 
went so far as to lose my own — but it was picked up and sent back 
a little bruised and broken. Don't threaten me with the loss of a 
heart — a human heart. ^Miy, brother, I should miss it less than a 
sparrow from yonder tree top. Titvis fretting over his lost day 
was less contemptible than a man of my age fretting over a lost heart. 
Come, let us gather flowers for Mary's birthday. Good morning, 
Mr. Hawthorne. Adieu, Miss Alice. Come, Vernon. 



10 Mary's bihthday. [act i. 

Ver. (Aside.) The infernal cynic. Miss Hawthorne, I shall not 
fail to do my duty. (Exeunt Lordly and Vernon, l. h. 1 e.) 

Haw, (Down R. H.) Have you told him to forget you ? 

Alice. (In tears on l. h.) More than that ; I have taught him to 
despise me. 

Haw. And if he should despise you ? Look up, my child. Yonder 
bounds the sun above the hills, as if the Grand Master himself had 
come to watch his world a while, and sent his sentinel stars to sleep. 
Tears like the rain are followed by the sunshine. The hand of the Great 
Consoler is sure to pamt his promised rainbow on the clouds, a sign 
for the deluge to cease. (Exeunt Hawthorne and Alice, r. h. 1 e.) 

Adam. She went that way — the gold hair — the blue eyes — they 
went that way. The must come that way ! 

Enter Beale and Jane, l. h. 2 e. 

■* 

Beale. It's well you came no sooner, Jane Jones. All creation's 
been 'ere. 

Ja7ie. This Grotto's a great place. K Mr. Lordly's in a fit of 
the glooms, he's sure to wander to the Grotto — if Mr. Vernon has 
a meeting with Miss Alice, it's always the Grotto — if you have 
any thing special for me, it's " Jane, I hexpect you at the Grotto." 
And now, having met you at the Grotto, pray, sir, what next. 

Adam. It seems a long night since yesterday. She will be weary 
when she comes that way ! 

Beale. Dry up, you hold Guy. 

Ja7ie. Beale, is the old fellow always here ? 

Beale. Day in and day out — rain or shine — winter and sum- 
mer — halways 'ere, these twelve years past. 

Ja7ie. And this daughter of his that he keeps expecting — this 
mysterious blue eyes and gold hair, that is eternally coming this 
way, and yet never comes ? There's something terrible about her, 
and you know you promised, Beale, you know you promised ? 

Beale. My lips are sealed. 

Jane. A man's lips are never sealed so tight that a kiss can't 
melt them. (Kisses him.) 

Beale. I'm thawing fast ! 

Jane. How did she happen to drive him mad ? eh, Beale ? 

Beale. Jane Jones, you are hirresistible. The 'istory of that 'ere 
old cove and his daughter is a romance — it ought to be put in a 
book — one of those yellow- covered books. It ought to form a 
part of hevery chambermaid's library. 

Jane. Out with it, Beale, or I'll expire. 

Beale. It's full of 'orrors. 

Jane. Pile 'em on. I'm devoted to 'orrors. There's nothing so 
fascinating as a good dose of 'orrors. 

Adam. Helen ! Helen I must I wait so long ? 

Beale. That was her name — 'Elen. 

Jane. I've often wished my name was Helen. Was she pretty ? 

Beale. Hastonishingly 'andsome for a Hamerican. A real 
Henglish beauty. All the neighbor'ood was in love with 'er — 'er 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday, 11 

father hadored 'er — two gentlemen haddressed 'er, and both suc- 
ceeded. 

Jane. Both succeeded ? 

Beale. Both succeeded. 

Jane. Beale 

Beale. Yes ; one succeeded in getting her for his wife, the other 
for his mistress. 

Jane. The infamous creature ! 

Beale. Heloped witli 'er 'usband's bosom friend. O woman, 
woman ! And now for the 'orrid part — guess what the hinjured 
'usband did. 

Jaiie. Bought a revolver — telegraphed the police ■ — took the next 
train — overtook them in the next town — massacred them both in 
each other's arms ! 

Beale. No, no. He took the foolish, old-fashioned way. Chal- 
lenged the sejucer, and got a ball in his leg. 

Jane. Served him right, the ninny. It's a wonder the lead didn't 
find its way to his head. 

Beale. O woman, woman ! The day before she left, 'er 'usband 
— I lived 'ere with old Mr. Lordly then — young Mr. Lordly didn't 
live 'ere then — it was a morning like this, only a spring morning — 
I met 'er going to her father's, with a basket of berries. I noticed 
the tears in 'er heyes as she walked along — but she was all hover 
smiles when v.'e reached old Hadam's cottage. She played around 
him like a kitten — twisting his gray hair with 'er hown, and snipped 
oiF one long lock with a pair of scissors 

Adam. Come, child, come. I have brought you a crown of red 
roses. Quick, they are fading — fading so fast ! (Raising the flower's.') 

Beale. Yes, there's the roses in his hand — fresh every day. Look, 
'e's making believe to crown 'er. 

Jane. I'd give a month's wages for a chance to choke that woman ! 

Beale. O woman, woman ! There he stood on that very morn- 
ing and blessed 'er — she knelt as he blessed 'er — and somehow the 
tears come into my heyes, too — though I never suspicioned 'er 
wunce — it was so solemn like. And then she rose all laughing 
again, singing an old song, and took that path, (pointing v. e. r. 
H.,) looking back over her shoulder, so, and kissing a good by to 
him with her 'and. 

Jane. Beale, you'll kill me — my apron's done for already. 

Beale. It was good by for hever — good by for heternity ! 
Then came the duel — the story went every where, and of course, 
old Hadam 'ad to 'ear it too. But no one ever knew 'ow 'ard the old 
man took it ; he was so quiet and steady like — until one morning 
we found 'im 'ere with these roses in his 'and, and 'ere 'e 'as been 
hever since. Ain't that 'orrid enough ? 

Jayie. Last week's Ledger beats it hollow. But, I say, Beale, if 
fathers' heads all turned with their daughters' heels 

Beale. Well, Jane Jones ? 

Jane. Madmen would be dreadfully in the majority. Now for 
the names. Who was the '< hinjured 'usband," and who the vile 
" sejucer." (Beale shakes his head.) Don't shake your head. 



12 Mary's birthday. [act i. 

Beak. I don't want a bullet through it. So mum's the word. 
Kiss away. You might has well attempt to thaw a hiceberg. 

Ja7ie. Beale ? 

Beale. I 'ave a himportant communication to himpart to you, 
and as it's near breakfast time, I must stop your hentreaties and pro- 
ceed to business. 

Jane. {Twirling her apron.') I must really go and look up my 
gentle Stillworth. 

Beale. Your gentle Stillworth will keep. Stay. Mr. Lordly 
contemplates a visit to Heurope in general, and Hengland — my 
native Hengland — in particular. 

Jane. Does he take you with him ? 

Beale. Jane Jones, I have been at some pains, as you know, to 
make Mr. Lordly a gentleman, — he will pass now in Hamerica, 
but I can't trust 'im to travel alone in Heurope yet; of course, I go. 
I've lost all 'opes of Hamerica. 

. Jane. Well, Mr. Impudence, you wish me to pack youi' trunk, I 
guess. 

Beale. (^Caressingly.') No, Jane ; not exactly my trunk, but our 
trunk — OUR trunk. For mark my prophecy — the same ship that 
takes George Lordly abroad, takes your gentle Stillworth too. So, 
Jane Jones, let it be our trunk. 

Enter Harley, in hlac'k, feeble and haggard, and Helen, 2 e. k. h. 

Jane. Quit it, Beale ; somebody's watching us. 

Har. (^Aside to Helen.) Lordly's man-servant.' But he can- 
not recognize me — I'm too much changed for that. We can learn 
all from him. 

Beale. 'Gad, I wonder who dug 'im up. 

Jane. Keep him off, Beale ; he's a ghost or a wampire — one of 
those blood-suckers we saw at the theatre — that walked so — and 
held his head so — and waved his hand so — (imitating.) Fend 
him ojff. 

Har. (Coming down.) Could you show me the way, my good 
friend, to the old sexton's cottage. I am told it is near Mr. Lord- 
ly's. This is Domewood, I believe ? I am just arrived from Italy, 
after a long absence. Many scenes that were once very familiar 
seem new and strange. 

Jane. Hear his voice, Beale. He's just out of a sepulchre. 

Beale. You'll find the path between those two sycamores — it's a 
little hovergrown just»now, but you can make it out. Turn to the 
left at that clump of laurel, and you're there in five minutes. You 
can't miss it — Huncle Adam walks it twice a day. 

Har. (r. c.) Is he living, then ? 

Beale. (l. c.) I said 'e walked. 

Har. The dead walk too at times. Is he well ? 

Beale. Not a pain or a hache in his body. 

Helen. (Aside, n. h.) Thank God ! 

Beale. But his mind ! Poor hold soul, sir, — when his daughter 
ran off" with his honor, the devil ran off with his wits. He's mad. 



SCENE 1.] Mary's biethday, 13 

Helen. (^Advancmg rapidly to Be ale.) Mad ! 

Beale, Mad these twelve years. There he stands hexpecting his 
daughter — waiting to crown her. He thinks they parted yester- 
day. Do you see the fresh roses in his 'and ? Mr. Lordly sends 
them to him from our 'ot 'ouse twice a day. 

Helen, Mad ! Mad for me ! Waiting for me ! Where ? 

Adam. {Up c.) The golden hair — the blue eyes — they went 
that way, they will come that way. Helen ! Helen ! your crown is 
fading ! {She springs forvjard to c, but totters back into Harley's 
arms^ 

Har. We have drained the chalice to the dregs. 

Jane. Run for a doctor, Beale. 

Har. {To Beale.) Stir not, on your life! The best physician 
■will soon be here. 

Helen. {Reviving.^ Untie this hood — fling back my hair — he 
will know me still. Lead me to those laurels. Ah, we knew them 
once too well. What was the song I sung ? 

Har. She raves. 

Helen. Let me stand alone. He will know me. I have strength 
to reach my father's feet. I have prayed all these years that I might 
die there. 

Adarn. She went that way — the gold hair — • the blue eyes. As 
sure as the sun shineth, they will come that way. 

Helen. {Advances towards Adam — ■ bareheaded — her hair loose — 
singing,^ 

** The ladye stepped tvithin the hall, 
Ay, and she said, on bended knee, 
• O, give me back my troth again. 
And Til go heme to my countries " 

Adam. {As she sings.) Coming at last. I hear her step — but 
O, how weary ! She m-ust have wandered far. I knew she would 
come that way. She is singing her song. Helen ! Helen ! come 
for your crown. One rose is living yet. Bend your head. {She 
kyieels — he stoops to croio7i her.) What ? Her hair was gold, and 
yours is gray — her eyes were blue, and yours are bleared — her 
cheeks were flame, and yours are frost. Where did you steal her 
smile ? — that smile is hers, i will kiss you for that smile. 

Helen. Father ! 

Ada7n. It seems to me — ah me ! — there is such a whirling here. 
Come, darling, I have kept the berries till you came. Let your head 
hang there — closer. See how soon she falls asleep. She has 
walked too far. How she has changed since morning — since yes- 
terday — since Ah, the mist is still here — mist, mist, mist ! — 

Take your rose wreath, dear. Don't touch her, sir, {to Harley ;) you 
will wake her — and her dreams are sweet — you see she's smiling. 

Har. (Tb Beale arac? Jane.) Kneel! Do you not see that there's 
an angel near us — the angel of death. 

Adam. Sh ! Let her sleep on — she's used to sleeping here. 
Death ? No, no — her heart is beating — her lips are breathing — 
she is whispering to me now. What ? what ? The light streams in 



14 mart's birthday. [act II. 

— the mist is melting. Forgive you ? Wait, wait — wait a while — 
it is all so sudden. (Helen revives mid supports him as he sinks hack?) 
I told you she was sleeping — see how she wakes. {Re sinks slowly 
back, supported by Helen and Harley.) 

TABLEAU. 

ADAM. BEALE. 

HARLEY. HELEN. JANE. 

R. H. L. H. 

END OF ACT I. 



ACT n. 

Scene I. — -Library at Domewood, 3 atid 4 G. ; d, f. l. h. practical; 
carpet doicn; Gothic round table on r. h. ; on it inkstand, quills, pens, 
portfolio of paper, check book, sealing wax, and written poetry ; Gothic 
arm chair L. of table, r. h. ; sofa on L. H. c. ; small table, with wine, 
<5fC., on 2 G. L. H. ; table on 3 e, r. h., with books, cigar box, and 
cigars. 

Jane discovered dusting the furniture. Enter Beale, 1 e. l. h. 

Jane. Are you just from the cottasie ? 

Beale. (l. h.) Just. 

Jaiie. (r. h.) What news ? 

Beale. They're hall a-livin' yet — hall a livin'. 

Ja7ie, What new horrors, Beale ? What makes you shake and 
shiver so ? 

Beale. Ham I a-shakin' hand a-shiverin' ? 

Ja7ie. You look scared to death. 

Beale. No, Jane J ones — not scared — a Henglishman's never scared. 

Jane. Hexcept in Hamerica, Beale. But you do look awfully 
scared. 

Beale. Not scared, Jane Jones — only himpressed. 

Jane. And what himpressed you, Beale ? 

Beale. {Fi-ightened.) Why, you know, Jane Jones, I 'elped to lift 
the old man to the cottage. 

Jane. Did he come to ? 

Beale. Came to — moaning and mumbling like. And when he 
'ad come to, says 'e to me 

Jane. He ? who ? The old one or the wampire ? 

Beale. The wampire. Says 'e to me, '* Breathe one syllable 
about what you 'ave 'eard or seen to George Lordly or hany body 
helse, and " — and — O Jane Jones ! 

Jane. And what ? Don't be quite so deeply himpressed, Beale. 
Beale. He pinted a pistol to my 'art, hexclaiming, " You know 
me? " I do know 'im, he's a dead shot. 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 15 

Jane. La, Beale, if would take twenty pistols to stop my tongue. 
Just think, another duel ; the wampire shot through the heart — ■ 
exciting trial — immense speeches — triumphant and unanimous, and 
instantaneous acquittal, and final reconciliation. 

Beale. Woman, beware ! Blab, and I'll bolt ! 

Jane. O Beale. 

Beale. I'll desert you forever — leave you a defenceless wictim — ■ 
leave you a 

Ja7ie. You have conquered — I submit. 

Enter Mary, 1 e. r. h., with a bunch of foicers, and case of jewels, 
which she places 071 table, R. h. 

Beale. Remember, mum ! It will all leak out in good time. 
Remember, mum ! 

Ja7ie. Mum ! {Exit Beale, 1 e. l. h.) I wish you a very happy 
birthday. Miss Mary, and many happy returns. 

Mary. Thank you, Jane. But what makes you sigh so ? 

Jane. Have you ever witnessed a romance in real life ? 

Mary. There is no romance worth naming out of real life. 

Jane. But a real thrilling climax ? O, dear, O, dear ! 

Mary. You seem to suffer. 

Jane. I do ; suffer — suffer as only woman can suffer, — suffer with 
an imprisoned secret. O, my dear mistress if I might but tell you — 
there's a romance going on around us ; we're right in the midst of it. 

Mary. Don't, Jane, — there's nothing I dislike half so much as 
an exposed secret. You may leave me. (^Retires zip r. h., to table 
R. H., atid sits.) 

Jane. (Aside.) Wait till I'm braiding her hair to-night. I'll make 
her hear me then, with all her grand airs. I call that woman nothing 
more nor less than a magnificent fool. (Exit Jane, l. h. 1 e.) 

Mary. These flowers and trinkets are from him. Must Lordly's 
beautiful affection pursue me forever, disdaining all return ? They 
say that each soul has an angel at its side, whose arched wings shield 
us in our exile ; and often have I longed to requite their celestial ser- 
vice. But far beyond the reach of human love speeds the veiled 
spirit on its mission of mercy, ever near us, but never ours. (^Goes 
up, sits at table R. h.) 

Enter Lordly, r. h. 1 e. 

Lord. Day after day must I stand by with folded arms, and see 
her thus slowly withering beneath Vernon's undisguised indifference ? 
Is it ever thus ? Must the nightingale ever lean her breast against 
the thorn ? (Mary advances on l. h.) Can't you get up a brighter 
face for your birthday r I wrote you some verses last night — here 
they are — at least the pieces. (Scattering the fragments.) 

Mary. I will pay you back for that. 

Lord. Come, be gayer — this is no day for sadness. 

Mary. Sadness is often peace. But if you wish it I shall be gay. 
Shall 1 romp, dance, sing — are you not tired of those old baby 
tricks ? — would you always have me a mere simpering plaything ? 



16 M.VRY's 13IRTHDAY. [aCT II. 

Lord, Scarcely. But I should like to restore the fire to your eye 

— the rose to your cheek — the coral to yoiir lips — I should like 

Mary. To have a wax doll of me ? All the flowers must fade ; 

fret not that my turn comes early in the season. 

Lord. Your dead father was my friend and protector, and when 
he left you to my care, he little imagined that my guardianship would 
prove a curse. 

Mary. A curse ? 

Lord. Exactly. You have no society, no amusement. We are 
ten miles from town, and not two visitors a year. You know why — 
you can explain this miracle. Ah, no blushing — no denial. You 
have heard it — all the world has heard it — the newspapers lived on 
it for a week — I can see the huge capitals now on the ceiling — on 
the wall — on the very trees — the trees I planted. There they are, 
the living, burning letters — ^'' Astounding Disclosures — Heavy De- 
falcation — George Lordly a Bank Robber ! " I have lived twelve years 
since then — lived here — here in the very centre of my shame — but 
here I live no longer. There is one safe refuge for all American 
defaulters — Europe. When I am once out of the way, the world will 
come and cure your sadness. 

Mary. The world will come, will it, and you away ? 

Lord. When I am cut down, the sunshine will reach you. I must 
quit this house w^hich I darken, this neighborhood which I infect. I 
wait but for one event — your union with Vernon. In mercy, in 
justice to me, name the day. 

Mary. Unsolicited by Vernon ? The man who expects a woman's 
highest gift, should reserve the privilege to sue in person. 

Enter Vernon, l. h. 1 e. 

Lord. He is here. This match-making's a very heart-breaking 
business — that's why women like it, I suppose. 

{Exit Lordly, 1 e. r. h.) 

Mary. See what charming flowers your brother gave me. 

Ver. And I, alas ! have none to bestow. The roses in the hot- 
house are his, and the flowers of the field have long since faded. 
Those ornaments too — I recognize his princel}' touch. I come, with- 
out an ofl'ering, to greet your birthday. 

Mary. "WTiat more do I wish than your hand and smile ? Let us 
group these buds before they wilt. (Mary sits on sofa, l. c. Ver- 
non sits on stool on her r. h.) 

Fer. Mary — it is two years since we promised to love each other 

— for life. I think we loved each other then. 
Mary. What a finely tinted camellia ! 

Ver. I think this pure white one prettier. There has latterly 
been some undefined restraint between us, which ought to be removed. 
If I have given you any cause 

Mary. I will keep this sprig of mignonette for Alice Hawthorne. 

Ver. Accompany it with this evergreen — let the little darling 
have a touch of constancy. I have been thinking. Mary, that to- 
day might be made a double feast — that your wedding day — don't 
crush that violet I — could not be better celebrated than on your 
birthday. 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 17 

Mary. And I have been thinking, Vernon, that we were both 
much younger when that scene in the garden occurred — and that 
you may have regretted the momentary impulse that then made you 
speak. You evidently take very little pleasure in my company, and, 
indeed, since Miss Haiothorne's return, — you are picking that rose to 
pieces ! — you have even avoided me. Were I disposed to be jeal- 
ous 

Ver. And were I disposed to be jealous, I might wonder what 
fascination you find in my brother's library. (Mary drops gera^iuim.) 
Allow me — you dropped this geranium. Whatever my devotion to 
Alice has been, it is over — I promise to bury her name beneath the 
altar that unites us. 

Mary. Has she stung you, Vernon ? Has she driven you from 
her side, that you fly to me for comfort ? Your cheek is flushed — 
your eye is flashing. Beware how you urge, in a momentary pique, 
a step, that once taken, is irrevocable. 

Ver, I am sick of these *< bewares." (Rises.) It seems to be my 
brother's peculiar function to mutter " beware ! beware ! " wherever 
I go, or whatever I do, and you have learned to echo him. I am not 
a child, to be scared by a raven's croaking. Yet even he would 
change his note for once, and sing — "• Marry, Marry ! " And know, 
Mary Stillworth, that it is to-day or never ! 

Mary, Never! let it be then. (Rises.) By what right dare you 
propose to-day or never ? Suppose I should prefer to-morrow or 
next day, or a week hence. Suppose I should like a new gown, 
or a new head-dress. Suppose I should like a month to test our 
reconciliation ? Would not your sublime majesty accord me one of 
those feminine prerogatives ? 

Ver. Name any day, then — make it certain, if not present. 

Mary. (^Laying her hand 07i his shoulder.) Vernon — my friend — 
my brother — let us put this quarrel from our path. Take your gun 
and bring me back a brace of quails — they are yours, since you say 
the flowers are not ; and come to me, when your wounds, whatever 
they may be, are not quite so fresh — when there is less venom on 
your lips — less gall in your heart ; we will talk this matter calmly 
over. 

Ver. Mary, you are an angel — and I, a poor devil, who only 
knows his own wretchedness, and how little he deserves you. I will 
shoot you the birds, (crosses l. h. ;) but, while I am away, ask yotir 
true heart to answer, from that inmost cell, too deep, too dark for 
human searching, whether, in my love of Alice Hawthorne — for I 
did love her ! — you or I am most to blame ! 

(Exit Vernon, l. h. 1 e.) 

Mary. Has he guessed my secret ? It cannot be ! I have guarded 
it as a priceless treasure — veiled it as a burning sin. Do I carry the 
confession in my eyes — is it written on my bosom ? — branded on 
my forehead ? He cannot see it ! He would worship me if he knew 
how well I love. 

Enter Beale with letter, L. H. 1 E. 

Beale. Many 'appy returns, Miss Mary. 
2 * 



18 Mary's birthday. [act ii. 

Mary. Why, Beale, are you ill ? You seem to have the ague. 

Beale. I ham hoverconie. 

Mary. By what ? 

Beale. Hovercome by a crisis — a crisis in the 'istory of this 'ouse. 
Something's 'appened, Miss Stiilworth. I'll be shot if I do tell 
•what's 'appened, and I begin to be hafraid I'll be shot if I don't. 
Shot if I do, by the wampire — shot if I don't, by the 'usband. 

Mary. Are you mad, or drunk ? Is that letter for me ? 

Beale. From Parson 'Awthorne's. 

Mary. {Opening the letter.') My old friend's birthday benediction. 
{Reading.) "My child: You were but eight years old when your 
father died, too young to comprehend a communication he wished to 
make to you. I attended him in his last moments, and, on his death- 
bed, he gave me the enclosed letter to keep, as a gift for your twen- 
tieth birthday." 

Beale. {Aside.) I think somebody helse 'as the hager now. 

Mary. A letter from my father, reserved till now ! {Opening it.) 

Beale. More 'orrors, as Jane says. More 'orrors ! 'Orrors hal- 
ways flies in squads. {She continues to read.) If she would honly 
'ear me, she'd put me on the right track about this wampire business 
— she's halways right. But I'll never get a chance — I'll never get 
a chance to make 'er 'ear me. {As she finishes the letter, her head falls 
on her arm.) Now, hinstead of hadvising me, she's contemplating a 
faint — Hamerican women 'ave a faculty for fainting. Jane Jones is 
splendid at it. {Kiieeling beside her.) 

Enter Jane, d. f. l. H. 

Would your ladyship listen? {Aside.) — Republicans like titles. — 

Would your 'ighness condescend {Aside.) — Gad, if 'ighness 

won't rouse 'er, she's either dead, or no Hamerican. 

Jane. The presumptuous villain ! making love to her, and she's a 
listenin' too. I'll scratch her eyes out — I'll ■ 

Mary. {Lifting her head.) Beale, say to Mr. Lordly that I should 
be glad to see him here. 

Jane. {Aside to Beale.) So you were making love to your mis- 
tress — were you ? 

Beale. Well, hain't this a free country ? Hain't one man as good 
as hanother ? Can't Henglish calves look up when Hirish whips is 
in demand ? I've discovered mistress's malady, Jane, — she's in love 
with me. 

Ja7ie. She's fool enough even for that. 

Beale. Do you see that letter in 'er 'and ? It's full of 'orrors. 

Jane. More 'orrors, Beale ? Pile 'em on, pile 'em on. 

{Exeunt Beale and Jane, r. h. 1 e.) 

Mary. How the heroes of the sword, the crested leaders of the. 
nation, — how the heroes of the pen, the laurelled leaders of the 
mind,' — are dwarfed by their uncrowned, vmloved brother — the hero 
of the hearth ! 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 19 



{Enter Lordly, r. h. 1 e., who watches her intently.) 

Lord. {Aside.) Still grieving ? The wedding day not yet named ? 
The scamp must have hung fire again. {Sitting beside her mi sofa^ 
L. c.) You two have been making sad work of my flowers. — You 
must have had quite an interesting interview. I hope this botanical 
barbarism led to some redeeming result. Come, tell me all ; think 
aloud. I am sure you are thinking of Vernon now. 

Mary. {Passionately, and rising.) I — thinking of Vernon f 
Thinking of Vernon note ? 

Lord. {Rising.) What has happened ? You are pale as a ghost. 

Mary. I have heard a voice from the grave. 

Lord. What has shaken you so terribly ? 

Mary. {Ccnitrolling herself.) There Mas nothing terrible in this 
voice from tlie grave, this music ft'om the other world ; it is but a 
sweet, strange story. 

Lord. You have been dreaming. 

Mary. Then interpret the dream. {They sit again on sofa, L. c.) 
There was once a man who held an office of trust, who lived beyond 
his means, who gambled m the vain hope of retrieving his fortunes, 
who once, in a moment of despair and want, defrauded the baiik 
over wliich he presided. 

Lord. {Aside, communingly.) Has Hawthorne betrayed the whis- 
pered trust of dying penitence ? {Laughing.) — Well, girl, it needs 
no ghost from the grave to tell us that. Bank robbery is no miracle. 

Mary. The miraculous part has yet to come. Hear me on. The 
president was the true criminal, but the clerk, Avho had been the 
dupe, was the only victim — the victim by his own free choice and 
act. It needed but his own word to clear him — that word was 
never spoken. It needed even all his intellect to conceal his inno- 
cence, and he tasked his ingenuity to prove his guilt. Innocent, 
unasked, unbought, silencing the confession of the contrite thief with 
a reckless laugh that seemed ambitious of disgrace, he stepped be- 
tween the culprit and his doom, and sacrificed his own honor to save 
his friend's. {Rising as he rises, and sinking sloivly to her knee.) The 
president of that bank was my father — the clerk who saved fiim 
was YOU, George Lordly. 

Lord. Has Hawthorne told you this ? No other mortal knew it. 

Mary. Did I not say it was a voice from the grave ? {Showing 
the letter.) Do you know the hand ? My father's — his dying legacy 
— a sealed gift for my twentieth birthday. It was left with Mr. 
Hawthorne ; he feared to trust it to you. 

Lord. {Grasinng the letter.) Well he might, or long since it had 
perished thus. {Violently tearing it.) Swear before you rise never 
to breathe, hint, speak, look one syllable of this. 

Mary. I will speak it trumpet-tongued throughout the universe. 

Lord. And much the universe would be edified at the spectacle 
of a daughter carving a curse on her father's spotless tombstone. 

Mary. Your part is played ; mine now begins. 

Lord. What part have you in a friendship that began before your 



20 Mary's birthday. [act n. 

life ? By what authority do you threaten to rob me of the solitary 
beauty of my life ? 

Mary. O, let me speak ; let me shout aloud your beautiful friend- 
ship ; let me wash the stain from your name, that men may know 
you, love you, worship you. Bury not this secret in one woman's 
heart ; it is too great for one poor heart to carry. 

Lord. Pshaw ! There lies the only proof of my innocence, and 
even at that the world would sneer as a shallow fabrication of mine. 
I am used to being thought dishonest, but I should not relish the 
additional sensation of being considered absurd. One syllable — 
one whisper of aught of this to mortal man and so help me Heaven, 
this is our last meeting. You have called me kind — I can be thrice 
as cruel. 

Mary. {Rises.') You have conquered. 

Lord. I would rather be dead at your feet than have you know 
this. But since you do know it, pray let me show you that I am not 
quite the hero and martyr, and your generous father (God bless him) 
not quite the scamp, you seem to thmk us. 

Mary. {Walking forward.) Of course you were a fool to do what 
you did ; any other booby would have done the same. Go on. I 
am sure you will contrive, in less than five minutes, to prove your- 
self either a simpleton or a scoundrel. 

Lord. {Folloioiiig her.) Say a simpleton. It is milder. You 
have heard that I was once married ; have you also heard {very ear- 
nestly and inquiringly) — {aside) the scandal was too stale to reach 
her. — Have you also heard 

Mary. {Still indignaiitly .) How you killed your wife ? 

Lord. No ; how my wife killed me. At home for the vacation, 
and necessarily enamoured of the nearest object, I was simpleton 
enough to fall in love with our gardener's pretty daughter. 

Mary. Whom you poisoned by putting prussic acid m her roses. 

J^rd. Whom I married on the spot. Poor Helen ! Calico and 
corn, instead of the velvet and wheat I had promised her. But such 
a pet as I had been, how could I expect to be disinherited ? An 
idler at college, a baby in the world, disinheritance meant starvation. 
Poor Helen ! our lot was a hard one, and she — grew weary of it. 

Mary. Weary, and with you ? 

Lord. So weary that I have been limping from this ball in 

my knee ever since. Mary Stillworth, when I was wounded, dis- 
owned, dishonored — when my wife's hands were busy with her 
bleeding paramour — your father was my only nurse ; and when 1 
rose, he gave me employment and a home. Need I say more ? I 
was childless ; he had you. I lonely and laughed at ; he loved and 
honored. O, girl, could you but know the strange, wild, man's joy 
with which I w'atched the old name of cuckold disappearing beneath 
the new brand of defaulter ! It was like a dukedom on a battle 
field. Nor was this all. On his dying bed, your father sent for 
mine, told him my innocence, told it as only his noble lips could 
tell it, told it so as to restore me to the sole inheritance of this 
princely estate. But, Mary, I imposed silence on my gray-haired 
sire ; think not I can suffer your young lips to rob me of this sacred 
tribute to the dead. 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday; 21 

Mary. {After a pause.') Is she living ? 

Lord. She ? Who ? Madame f Living ? Could she live away 
from mef Well, the wedding day — is it lixed ? Come, I am crazy 
to start for Europe. 

Mary. To escape being stung to madness here by calumnies which 
I might change, with one word, to worship. 

Lord. And did you really believe that I, who have lived down a 
lie which looked like truth, I who have outlived the few that ever 
loved me — that I was afraid of being still cut by Mrs. Noodle, and 
still unrecognized by Mr. Poodle ? Why, the world has grown more 
charitable ; society seems to have some divine aspiration to suffer 
between thieves ; the difficulty now is to find a man that hasn't 
robbed a bank. Pshaw, Mary ; why, even when I fretted most, it 
was far less owing to public scorn than to the yWenrf/?/ derision which 
my unconcealed indifference to public opinion universally excited ; 
for I soon found that friendship, whose essence is equality, never 
forgives superiority. There, I've made my boast. Name the day 
when I shall be free to wander. 

Mary, Why name it now, when you have disclaimed the only 
temptation ? 

Lord. There is another reason. 

Mary. What reason can part us now ? 

Lord. Some of these days you shall know. When you and Ver- 
non are wedded, when I return from my wanderings a venerable 
pilgrim, and ask to share your cup of peace — why, then, some 
summer's evening, when the whip-poor-will sings on the • hillside, 
and I sit beneath those talking oaks with your children on my knees, 
you may hear my only remaining secret, — but not now, pet — not 
now. 

Mary. You have caught my pallor — your hand is trembling. 

Lord. I have sudden spells of feebleness that quite unman me. 
Mary Stillworth, could you know what my dreams are, night by 
night, here — in that very chair — you would not venture to stand 
thus with your wliite hand fast in mine. {Breaking from her.) I am 
but a weak, dreaming babe — a fool that loathes, yet loves, his folly. 
But since I have become a hero in your eyes, I shall strive to play a 
hero's part. Vernon has been here 

Mary. He loves Alice Hawthorne. K you would insure his 
happiness, let him marry her. 

Lord. He does not love her ; it was but a passing inclination, 
provoked by doubt of your affection. 

Mary. Can there be a doubt of m,y affection ? This misunder- 
sta?iding must end; it is killing me. {Cross to r. h. She covers her 
face with her hands.) 

Lord. {Passionately.) To day shall end it ! If you believe that I 
have the right to demand a favor, grant the one I now ask. 

Mary. You cannot name the deed I will not do. 

Lord. {Taking her ha7id.) Marry Vernon. 

Mary. {Staggering.) When ? 

Lord. At sunset this evenings 

Mary. You have asked it. Be it so. At sunset this evening. 
(Exit Mary, 1 e. r. h., her eyes fixed on Lordly.) 



22 Mary's birthday. [act ii. 

Lord. What could it mean — that long, deep, upbraiding gaze ? 
Unloved in my youth by the meanest, dare I hope it now from the 
noblest ? Yet her words were too plain — • this misunderstanding 
is killing me.' Her bounding step, and this shattered knee ? 
the brown splendor of her hair, and this grizzled brow! Never, 
even were I free. It is a dream, a phantom. Away with it ! 

Enter Yernon, l. h. 1 e., icith gun, in field dress, draggi7ig Beale hy 
the ear, tchose cries are heard from icithout. 

Beale. Do'-do'-don't 'urt me, sir. I tried my best, but I couldn't 
help telling — hindeed, I couldn't, sir. 

Lord. Don't waste a shot, Vernon — what's the row ? 

Ver. {Releasing him.) Now speak, you infernal rascal; speak 
out. or by the blood of Nimrod I'll wing you. He's been after me 
with a cock and bull story about you and Uncle Adam, and a 
woman, and a wampire. Speak, you bloody British booby ; speak, 
or I'll give you a dose of American lead. 

Beale. {To Lordly.) They're back — they're back, sir ! 

Lord. Who are back ? 

Beale. {Stammering.) 'Er and 'im, sir — 'Elen and 'Arley, sir — 
the wictim and the wampire, sir ! 

Ver. Stop your gibberish. "WTiat does he mean, George ? 

Lord. {Motioning Beale to go.) Heturn in ten minutes. And, 
Beale, {crosses to c, aside to Beale,) I keep my pistols loaded — ■ 
keep your mouth shut till I see you. 

Beale. Ye-e-e-yes, sir. {Exit Beale, l. h, 1 e.) ' 

Lord. The scoundrel cannot get drunk without having a vision 
of my runaway wife. I suppose you have heard of her ? 

Ver. Yes, and heard of her death abroad after you killed her 
paramour. 

Lo)-d. Killed her paramour? Gad, he came nearer killing me. 
My second thought it all up with me. 

Ver. Second ? Did you risk your life against a villain's, who 
deserved to be shot down like a dog ? 

Lord. I had some such heroic idea, of course, of shooting him 
down like a dog. But Edwin Harley and I were old playmates ; 
and somehow the image of the fair-haired boy I had loved in the old 
college days got between me and the bearded man who wronged me. 
It was twelve years ago, too, when I might contrive to pass for an 
honorable man ^cithouf shooting him down like a dog. Besides, 
brother, I wanted a bullet through my own heart more than through 
his ; for at such a moment a fond coward like me finds death sweeter 
than revenge. It's not exactly the most gallant thing in the world, . 
this shooting a man down like a dog. But one thing at a time. 
Could you love Mary StiLlworth ? 

Ver. I could reverence, at least — bow like Endymion in his 
brightening cave before the descending moon. That's her style, 
isn't it ? {Loading his gun.) But you have taken this match on your 
own shoulders ; settle it your own way. Any thing will suit me l 
but the sooner the bettor. 



ST3ENE 1.] Mary's birthday. 23 

Lord. Are you loading that gun to blow my brains out ? You 
look as if you had some such thought, and I am not at all disposed 
to balk your pious intentions. 

Fer. (Wadding the shot.) My shot is too small for such large 
game. Take your eyes off my heart, brother, or dive deep. You 
will find some drops of your own true blood at bottom. 

Lord. {Taking his hand.') Vernon Lordly, Mary Stillworth is to 
me the most precious charge on earth. Answer on your honor — 
may I trust her to your keeping ? 

Ver. George, as there is a heaven above us, I believe that Mary 
Stillworth at this very moment loves you, not me. 

Lord. {Whispering .) Loves me — loves me ? Those words should 
fall like the light of a new-born star — soft as the dew drop's whisper 
of the skies to the dreaming flowers. 

Ver. She loves you. {Replacing the rod.) 

Lord. Loves me f Why, in my morn of life I strove for woman's 
love, and failed. You know not how I toiled to win my poor little 
fugitive's simple heart. In prosperity, I loaded her with gold and 
gems ; in adversity, I poured the treasures of my mind at her feet. 
Our mother tongue was too narrow for my broad homage. I ran- 
sacked the languages, explored the centuries, for names of endear- 
ment. 

Ver. {Lifting the hammer.') That's no way to win a woman. 

Lord. All in vain. And yet you talk of Mary Stillworth loving 
me — me, a gray, forsaken defaulter ! You are madder than Beale, 

Ver. {Capping.) I believe you love her too. 

Lord. A truce to this nonsense. She told me not an hour ago 
that her misunderstanding with you was killing her. 

Ver. Her eyes have told another story. 

Lord. Believe her lips ; no falsehood ever sat there. 

Ver. There must be some mistake. 

Lord. None, Question her no more, or you will slay her at the 
foot of the altar. She has named the day and hour. 

Ver. Good. When ? 

Lord. Sunset this evening. 

Ver. Capital. Dinner afterwards. I have just time to bag a 
dozen quails for the grand event. I say, George, you'll have to lend 
me your old swallow tail, for I ripped my new Hilberg last 
night, trying a double carrom at the club. Don't have much com- 
pany. I'll be back in time. {Whistling for his dog.) Here, Don! 
here, boy ! {Exit, whistling, 1 e. l, h.) 

Lord, A horsewhip would improve that youngster. I wish I 

were his father instead of his brother. I've half a mind but to 

break off now would break her heart. A wedding's always one 
note, at least, above a funeral. A woman would rather die of a 
biute than dieybr one. {Sits on the sofa, l. c) 

Enter Jane Jones, l. h, 1 e, 

Jane. sir, something dreadful's happened to Beale. I can't 
get a word out of him, do what I will. He goes about with his 
mouth shut and his chin up — so. I'm sure he has the lockjaw. 



24 Mary's birthday. [act ii. 

Lord. (^Aside.) He always has when I name my pistols. — Jane, 
is there any case on record of a woman's having the lockjaw ? Send 
Beale here ; I'll cure him. And mind you, Jane, the lockjaw is an. 
infirmity for which I have a great respect — especially in servants. 

Enter Beale, h. l. 1 e. 

Ah, here's our invalid now. You can leave us, Jane. 

Jane. Can't I hold his head, while you operate on him, sir ? I 
am good at holding heads, sir. 

Lord. I have no doubt of it. Most of you are. Go ! 

Jane. Well, I'm gomg. — {Aside.') Poor Beale ! 

Lord. Go! 

Jane. Well, ain't I gone ? {Exit Jane, l. h. 1 e.) 

Lord, {fitting on sofa, L. c.) Compose yourself, Beale, Sit 
down. Look a little less ghastly. Smile — can't you? That's 
something like it ; try again. Heavens, man, do you call that a 
smile ? Open your mouth ; I won't shoot you. You were saying 
something about — about Helen and Harley — about their being 
back. 

Beale. {Stammering.') Ye-e-e-yes, sir. Me and Jane, sir, as w-e 
was standing a talking, a talking by the Grotto this morning, and 
Huncle Hadam a standing there too, and leaning on his spade, and 
calling, and calling 

Lord. {Filling a glass icith brandy.) Less emotion, Beale. Your 
nerves want bracing. Empty that — don't be afraid; it won't hurt 
you — down with it all. That's it. Can you smile now? Bravo! 
Now for our story — come. Uncle Adam was leaning on his spade, 
and calling — come, Beale, — callhig w^hat ? 

Beale. Calling for his daughter to come, and she came, and 'Arley 
with her. They came like two ghosts — hawfully pale — hawfully 
changed ; but I knew 'em, and the hold cove seemed to know 'era 
too. O, what a scene it was, sir ! you should 'ave been there. First 
she fell in 'is harms, then 'e fell in 'er harms ; first she fainted, then 
'e fainted ; first she came to — then 'e went ofi" like, and she and 
'Arley and I 'ad to take 'im 'ome, where they hall hare now. 'Arley 
swore 'e'd blow my brains out hif I blowed 'im before 'e was ready to 
see you, {feeling the liquor, hut not drunk ;) but, bless you, sir, 'e's too 
weak to pull a trigger — a real living skeleton ; and you know, sir, 
that I'm the last man halive to be hafeard of a pistol. {Rising.) 

Lord, {Rising.) Yes, you are hard to scare, Beale. I thought 
they were in Europe or in — heaven ! 

Beale. He said they 'ad just harrived from Hitaly. 

Lord. Was the lady very feeble ? 

Beale. Sick as death — frail as a hangel — spirituous in the hex- 
treme. 

Lord. vSeasick, most likely. Beale, we must fatten Harley up, for 
I foresee that I shall have to fight him again, and fighting a skele- 
ton's not the thing. Cram a basket with wines and meats, and send 
it to Adam, with Parson Hawthorne's regards, and let Hawthorne 
call — they may want him. So much for that ; and now for a very 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 25 

diiferent matter. "We are to have a wedding here this evening. 
Mary and Vernon 

Beale. Is it coming off at last ? How things will turn up hafter 
all ! By the royal George, I hopinioned you'd taken a fancy to the 
girl yourself. 

Lord. Beale, I know you are not afraid of a pistol, but you 
haven't an absolute preference for a bullet through your body — 
have you ? 

Beale. A bullet through my body — a bull- bull-bullet through 
my bod-bod-body ? Not hex^hex-hexactly. 

Lord. Then no more hopinions. The wedding will be at six ; we 
dine at seven. No company except the Hawthornes and a few of our 
farmer friends— just enough for an old-fashioned cotillon. Off with 
you ! Sack the hot-house ; fringe the drawing-room windows with 
camellia branches — not a beggarly flower or two. Cut to the root ! 
Scrub up the plate — bring out the old Holmes — and she likes Bur- 
gundy — don't forget that — she likes Burgundy ! Off with you, 
Beale, — stir up the pastry cook — waylay the butcher — ravage the 
garden — electrify the kitchen — float us in champagne ! Float us 
in champagne ! 

Beale. My heyes, yes. Float us in champagne ! O, we'll 'ave a 
jolly good time of it 1 

Lord. (Sinking sicddenhj down in arm chair on K. H., with his head 
071 table.) Yes, Beale, a jolly good time of it. 

Beale. Are you hill, sir ? 'Ave you 'ad a hapopliptic strike ? 
May be your nerves wants bracing now ? Try the same dose you 
gave me — it braced me beautifully, Hindeed, you're hill, sir. 

Enter Jane, d. f. l. h. 

Lord. Not ill, Beale, only lonely — very lonely. Go. I have a 
deed or two to draw. 

Jane. (Advaticing tiptoe on L. H.) What ails him, Beale ? Has 
he caught your lockjaw ? 

Beale. (^Gravely, in a whisper.) He's lonely, Jane Jones — very 
lonely. Come, 'elp me. I've orders to razee the japonicas — trans- 
plant the 'ot-'ouse — uncork the cellar — cook the garden — roast 
creation — and play the devil generally. Lend me a 'and — you're 
good at playing the devil generally. 

Enter Mary, 1 e. r. h. 

'Ave a care. Miss Mary. Don't disturb 'im — *e 'as hinstruments 
to draw, and 'e's lonely — very lonely. Come, Jane, I think I see 
us in heach bother's harms, a floating in champagne. 

{Exeunt Beale and Jane, 1 e. l. h.) 

Mary. Lonely ! There are bitterer things than loneliness, at least 
for a woman. {Advancing.) You seem to suffer. 

Lord. {Starting up.) Suffer ! A man never suffers. 

Mary. Without a woman's knowing it. Let us walk. I am too 
happy to be still. Let us scale those purple hills, where the acorn 
bounds from its dinted cup, and the chestnut cleaves its velvet nest. 
3 



26 Mary's bihthbay. [act hi. 

Let us gather the autumn leaves, flushed with the first brilliance of 
death, and you shall twist them into my wedding wreath. The leaves 
of November will suit me better than the flowers of May. (^Gradu- 
ally leading him off, R. H., as she speaks.') Come, Mr. Cynic, come. 

(Exeunt Mary and Lordly, 1 e. r. h.) 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT ni. 

Scene I. — Lih-ary, as in Act II. Beale on sofa, l. c, smoking ; wine 
before him, on table. 

Beale. This is a new brand — not bad. And this wine's huncom- 
mon good. 

Enter Jane, 1 e. l. h. 

Jane. Well, that's a picter ! 

Beale. Hartistic — hain't it ? Hartistic. Lordly calls it bracing 
the nerves ! What a hidea for a Hart Union. •' Bracing the 
nerves" — Beale, bracing his nerves ! (Rising.') 

Jane. Keep your distance, sir. You needn't embrace my nerves 
too. Beale, is there to be a fight ? 

Beale. Not himmediately. We hintend to fatten our man hup 
first, so as to 'ave a fairer shot at 'im. We don't mean to bother 
about 'im till hafter we've floated a while in champagne — till hafter 
the wedding. 

Ja7ie. Beale, this wedding's a sin. Vernon hates Stillworth as 
much as he loves Alice, and he's only marrjdng her to save her life — 
as if her life was worth saving. Poor Alice is to be bridesmaid too ; 
she came in a while ago looking like death. Poor, broken-hearted 
dear — wouldn't it be awful if she dropped down dead at the 
ceremony ? 

Beale. Hawful ! But I'll tell you, Jane Jones, who'll be much 
more hapt to drop down dead during the ceremony — and that's your 
darling Stillworth. 

Jane. She? There's no die in her. 

Beale. She 'ates Vernon full as much as 'e 'ates 'er. Jane Jones, 
(rohisper,) if the wictim was but hout of the way, so that Lordly him- 
self was heligible 

Jane. AVell, ain't he "heligible" ? Ain't he divorced ? 

Beale. No, 'e doesn't believe in divorces. 

Jane. Well, he can't have long to wait now. 

Beale. Yes, 'e may. Wictims is halways very tough — very 'ard 
to kill. As a general rule, wives never die AA-hen you want 'em. 

Jane. (Soletnnly.) Beale, do you really and truly, mdeed and 
double believe that Stillworth and Lordly is seriously mclin'jd to 
one another ? 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday. 27 

Beale. I do believe and haffirm that they are most decidedly hin- 
clined to heach bother. 

Jane. K Vernon only knew that, we might save him and Alice 
yet. 

Beale. Let 'em go ahead, Jane. It's all one. No matter who's 
who, so as they float us in champagne ! 

Jane. But it does matter. They must be dressing for the wed- 
ding now, Stillworth and Alice must. It's high time they were ; 
and I'm going to listen at the keyhole. Brides and bridesmaids al- 
ways unbosom themselves when they're a dressing for a wedding. 
May be I can help Vernon yet. So good by, Beale. 

Beale. Farev/ell, Jane Jones ! (^Waving his hand pompously .') 

Jane. (^Coqitettishly.) I say, Beale, good by ! 

Beale. O, good by; that means, "Come kiss me." Jane Jones, I 
contemplate hissuing a Dictionary, called Beale's Dictionary of So- 
cial Syninhims. 

Jane. Social Singing Hjonns, Beale ? 

Beale. Yes. For hinstance, " You 'ateful man ! " Definition, *' I 
love you." — '♦ For Heaven's sake, don't." Definition, " For God's 
sake, do." — " Blood thirsty murder." Definition, " Moral hinsani- 
ty." — " Railway dividends." Definition, " 'Orrible catastrophe." 

— ** Modern horiginality." Definition, " Hantiquated habsurdity." 

— *» Good by." Definition, " Kiss me ; " and so forth. 

Jane. (^Approaching him.) Beale, how would you define this ? 

Scale. Proceed. Which ? Propound. What ? 

Jane. (^Slapping him.) Why — this. Put that in you Dictionary. 

{Exit Jane, 1 e. l. h.) 

Beale. That's too much of a jaw-breaker for my Dictionary. My 
nerves want a little more bracing after that. {Lounging on the sofa 
and filling his glass.) 

Enter Lordly, d. r. l. h. ; sits at table on R. h., tmseen by Beale. 

This is the way to do it. Lordly' s a snob, a regular snob. None of 
the heasy hindiff'erent ways of our nobs. "Why, Lord, it was a spec- 
tacle, a real spectacle, to see Lord Littlehead throw 'imself back in 
'is horiental dressing gown, hexclaiming ' Beale, a cigar ! ' 

Lord. Beale — a cigar ! 

Beale. {Starting up.) O, that the hearth would hopen at my 
*oet and 'ide me for hever ! 

Lord. Beale, a cigar ! Isn't that something in my Lord Little- 
head's style ? 

Beale. {Aside.) Caught — cornered. He must 'ave 'card me call 
'im a snob, too ! 

Lord. A cigar, you dog ! Is that snobbish enough for you ? 

Beale. {Aside. Handing the box from table.) I'm a ruined hin- 
dividual ! I've about 'alf henf[3tied the box, too. But 'e never 
misses things ; 'e's too simple for that. 

Lord. {Taking his box.) Beale, is this the new brand ? 

Beale. The new — new — new brand, sir. I hinspected it. 



28 Mary's birthday. [act hi. 

Lord. I should think you had hinspected it. I see your mark — 
and a pretty deep one it is. 

Beale. Cigars will shrink when they're hopened, sir. 

Lord. Shrink f Yes, and my wardrobe — cellar — pantries — gar- 
den — orchard — purse, they all shrink, too. Your mark is on them 
all — they are all hinspected. 

Beale. (^Aside.) So much for calling 'im a snob ! 

Lord. When my Lord Littlehead dismissed you, Beale, he did it 
helegantly, Beale ; didn't he, Beale ? It was quite a spectacle to see 
him hexclaiming, ' Beale, depart ! ' He led you down stairs by the 
hand, I suppose. 

Beale. (^Aside.') He dragged me down by the 'eels. 

Lord. But a snob, Beale, I say a stiob, must indulge his instincts 
by throwing you out of the window. 

Beale. (^With immense emotion.') Pitch away, sir ; I 'ave no hex- 
cuses. Let me die ! 

Lo}'d. No, Beale ; I intend to let you live — and live with me. 

Beale. {Aside.} I thought my hagonies would fetch him. 

Lo7-d. I intend to keep you for the following reasons. First, you 
waited on my father ; second, you know too many of my secrets ; 
third, if I let you loose, you'd beggar the whole community with 
your inspections — the whole state would shrink ; and fourth, because 
your English flunkey has a genius for being kicked and cuffed about, 
and I never could find an American Avith the least talent that way. 

Beale. (^Aside.) He's shrinking me some, now. 

Lord. I shall take you to England, and contrive to lose you there. 
"We start this week — to-morrow, perhaps. Pack my trunk to-night. 
What news from the cottage ? Has Hawthorne been there ? 

Beale. I met him on his way from there, and 'e hintimated that 
the hold man and she is mending — hespecially the hold un ; but 
that ' Arley is wery bad — wery bad hindeed. 

Lord. Very bad with what ? 

Beale. With what Lord Littlehead's haunt died of, sir, — 'em- 
morrhage. 

Lord. Hemorrhage ? Poor Harley, is this the end ! It seems but 
yesterday you led us all at college, and prophecies were made of 
Harley — the promising Harley. You had youth, beauty, genius — 
and I, money — money alone. How I longed to change lots with 
you — to buy your gifts with all my father's gold ! And yet that 
gold has been my best friend, and your gifts your worst ruin. Gold 
and life are lovers — apart, nothing — united, all ! But Genius walks 
the world a whining exile, sighing for the withered laurels of her 
bridegroom. Death ! O, die, die, die ! A man of genius is a fool 
to live ! Is it hard to die dishonored, when I find it so easy to live 
unloved ? 

Beale. He's off. Up in the clouds somewhere. Hegular bal- 
loon-head. Halways gasing after something or other. 

Lord. We can't fight a consumptive, Beale ; a ball through the 
lungs would only cure him. Pack up to-night. We're off to-mor- 
row. Send Yernon. Ah — — 



SCENE I.] Mary's birthday, 29 

Enter Vernon, l. h. 1 e. 

Well met, Vernon. Beale, depart ! 

Ver. Whj^ Beale, you look as if you had lost all your first cousins. 

Beale. No, sir ; houly a little shrunk, sir ; honly a little shrunk. 

{Exit Beale, l. h. 1 e.) 

Lord. {Sltti7ig at table, r. h.) Vernon, excuse my troubling you 
with a matter of business on your wedduag day ; but there is an un- 
settled account between us. 

'Fer. If you are going to call me to account for my weekly al- 
lowance, I fear that a mortgage on my dog and gun will be pretty 
much all I can give you. 

Lord. When our dear old father was dying, he called me to his 
bedside — he disbelieved, at that moment, what the world had said 
of me ; and to atone for having once disinherited me, he made me 
his sole heir, trusting, of course, that I would do you no injustice. 
It is now time to show you that this confidence was not misplaced. 

Ver. Brother, my horse, my dog, and my gun are enough for me. 
So long as there is a partridge on the hills — a covey in the plain — a 
duck in the air — I need no other fortune. A place in your heart — 
a seat at your table — a bed beneath your roof — are all I ask. 

Lord. I have just left the deeds for record, and transferred the 
stock. This check (jgiving it) completes the division of our estate. 
I have kept the homestead for myself, but every thing is fair to a 
cent. My entries are beautiful — take a look at them. {Opening 
books.') Observe that five — isn't it a beauty ? 

Ver. Do not crush me M'ith your bounty ; I have hated you ! 

Lord. I know your heart, boy ; I know what was there — pride 
— jealousy — misconception — but not hatred. You never lived 
the day you would not have died for me. Love always has a shadow, 
and we sometimes call it hatred; — but love is love, for all that. 
You were a little weary of me — my fault, not yours ; but I have 
ordered Beale to pack my trunk for Italy, so that you and Mary 
will soon be rid of the cynic. By the way, I did cheat you. I have 
just settled a living on old Hawthorne, and charged you for half 
of it. 

Ver. {Leaning on his shoulder.') By Heaven, George, I can't stand 
this. One thing at a time ; you'll kill me. The words stick here, 
here in my throat — here. God bless you, brother, for rememberiaig 
Alice. 

Lord. We understand each other now. To your bride, boy ; it 
is near the hovir, and I have still a deed to execute. To your bride. 
And, Vernon, — I never met the heart like hers ; such radiant insight, 
such simple faith, such swerveless truth. Wear her in your heart of 
hearts — you will find her a talisman for every malady. In her 
father's name, as her protector, friend, and guardian, I give her to 
you ; be faithful to the trust. {Leading him out.) To your bride ! 
{Exit Vernon, 1 e. l. h.) The last dream is over ! On the very 
threshold of manhood I part with love. As I enter the temple the 
deity departs, and I find the lamps extinguished and the altar bare. 
Life without love ! I shall get used to it ; the hand will cease to 
3 * 



30 Mary's birthday. act hi. 

expect the replying pressure, and the eye will cease to ache for the 
returning glance ! Yet it is hard that manhood's only hope should 
be the aspiration to forget. The last dream is over ! {Exit^ 1 e. r. h.) 



Scene H. — Antechamber at Doniewood, 1 g ; CD. practical. Enter 
Jane, listening, c. D. L. h. 

Ja7ie. Here they come all dressed for the wedding. K they don't 
have a talk now, they're not fit to be women. {^Retires up softly, 

R. H.) 

Enter Mary, with wreath of leaves, and Alice, c. d. r. h. ; then Jane 
retires quietly at c. D. 

Alice. "Wear these white flowers ; they are so much more appro- 
priate. 

Mary. "We gathered these leaves this morning — Lordly and I. 
Let me wear them ; see how the glory of death has touched them 
with its first splendor. {Bends her head.) Do you remember 
the ancient custom of adorning the victim ? It was the forehead 
doomed to meet the axe that wore the fillet. (Alice fastens the 
wreath.) Who is the victim, you or I ? You are losing a lover, I 
am gaining one. Have I a doomed look ? 

Alice. You never looked so happy or so lovely. 

Mary, I have stolen your sweetheart — can you forgive me ? Re- 
member he was mine before he was yours. But I shall not keep 
him long. Before another summer, you shall have him back again. 

Alice. It seems to me you jest somewhat bitterly. 

Mary. Jest ? I am in earnest. Wait a while — a little patience — 
he will come back to you when I am gone. 

Alice. There is something in your voice that makes me shudder. 

Jane. {Aside, c. D.) The crisis is coming. I knew it. More 
horrors ! 

Mary. Would you have me live when he does not love me ? Do 
you not see the meaning of these dead leaves ? 

Alice. He loves you — he must — he shall ! 

Mary. Vernon's love ended when mine began. A girl — a child 
— I knew not I had a heart till I promised my hand. Then, with 
one wild bound, I sprang from child to woman — I seemed to be- 
hold a god — unseen till then, he stood before me in all his majesty 
and glory ! 

Alice, Of whom do you speak ? 

Mary. Of him — the only one ! And then there came the fatal 
knowledge that my love was unreturned. I could bear this — but 
to see his great mind slowly smouldering out — his great heart 
mutely stinging itself to death, — to see this, and feel that I could 
make it otherwise, that I could stop this ruin ! O, could I take his 
head between my hands, and write on his forehead that one word, 
«' Rest " ! O, were he once mine, that I might show the world how 
woman can wield the might and genius of the man she loves ! 



SCENE II.] Mary's birthday. 31 

Alice. He shall be yours, and yours alone. 

Mary. Have you the sun, the stars, the whole heaven in your 
gift, that you promise a heart like his ? Do you think I spoke of 
your Vernon ? If Vernon loves you, may I not have my love ? I 
meant to give you your Vernon — give him to you to-day — but I 
trample on your heart and mine alike, because he asks it ! 

Alice. "Who ? Mr. Lordly ? {In a loio tone.') 

Mary. Hush ! Don't shout it ! I know not how it came to pass 

— but I, who had sat upon his knee and called him father — I, who 
had feared his moody grandeur — I, his pet, his doll, his plaything, 

— loved him — loved him in silence and sorrow — with God alone 
my witness — no mother's feet at which to lay my secret — no sister's 
breast on which to breathe the tale. 

Alice. You have found a sister now. 

Mary. Could you see him as I do — could you live in daily con- 
templation of his beautiful nature — could you know the one grand 
deed that man has done — you would realize how soon my love must 
cost me my life. 

Alice. But if he knew your love ■ ■ 

Mary. He will know it soon. The crossed hands, the parted 
lips, the open eyes, will tell him soon. He will know it then — I 
will leave a message or a smile — there will be some sign in the cold 
face to tell him that I died for him. 

Alice. I must stop this sacrilege. 

Mary. Girl, I have trusted to you woman's holiest secret ; you 
dare not forfeit your woman's faith. You, a woman, with those 
true eyes of yours, carry my confession to the man who loves me 
not — run to your truant lover with a story of your rival's perfidy ? 
He would scorn you. 

Alice. Better be scorned even by him I love, than have you 
perish. 

Mary. I was woman enough to talk of dying, but do not think 
me child enough to do it. Do you think I can perish with your 
noble Vernon at my side ? 

Alice. I must see if my father has come. 

Mary. {Seizing her arm.') Stay ! I will not trust you. Mark 
me — if you turn traitress, I will brand your story as a plot to 
cheat me of my love. I will beg Vernon, on my knees, to make me 
his in spite of your calumnies. Stir not ; this case is past your cure. 
Step not between me and my fate. Sacrifice is woman's noblest 
heritage. May I trust you ? 

Alice. Fear not ; your secret is safe. 

Mary. Pardon the wrong I am doing you ; and when the brief 
injustice is over, visit me sometimes at the sweetbrier in your 
father's churchyard. I shall be at home when you call. Come, 
wash away these telltale tears ; they must not know you have been 
weeping. What ? A woman, and yet no actress ? Come ! It is 
sunset now — sunset for you and me ! 

{Exeunt Mary and Alice, 1 e. r. h.) 

Jayie. (^^c.d.) There's a climax ! {Comes down centre.) Wouldn't 
I like to see it in print ! ISIy ! but it would read splendid ! 



32 Mary's birthday. [act in. 

Enter Beale, 1 e. l. h. 

Beak. The company 'as come, hand the parson's a-comin% hand 
Mr. Lordly hexpects the ladies in the drawing room. Whaf s the 
row, Jane Jones ? What's out ? More 'orrors ? 

Jane. Support me, Beale — I'm himpressed, hovercome I O 
Beale, wouldn't it read splendid I 

E7iter, rapidli/, Yernon, 1 e. l. h,, pulling otx his gloves. 

Ver. "Well, there's a hand to give a pretty woman — a dainty, 
delicate collection of fingers ! They have split three pair of gloves 
already — now for the fourth ! 

Jane. (^Breaking from Beale, andpotmcing vn Yernon theatrically .'} 
I iiave saved you ! You'll be happy yet ! You'll live to ble&s the 
memory of Genevieve Jones ! 

Ver. 'Gad, woman, are you mad ? • 

Beale. Mad as her master. 

Jane. Mad ? I'm the only sane character in the plot. I over- 
heard an unbosoming just now bet^^een Still worth and Hawthorne. 

Ver. Stillworth and Hawthorne ! Be civil, you hussy ! 

Beale. (Aside.) 'Ussy ! I'll resent that. 

Ja7ie. (To Yernon.) Don't roar so — they'll hear us — they're 
in the next room. Providence has called me to the rescue. Strike, 
but hear me ! 

Ver. What in the name of the Lord are you driving at ? (Jane 
whispers in his ear.) 

Jatie. I've petrified him. Not here — it is too close — (pointing 
1 E. R. H., where Mary and Alice tcent off) — the next room — in 
the next room. [Exit Jane, sloioly, 1 e. r. h., with nmch pantomime 
and many attitudes, followed by Yernon.) 

Beale. The next room's 'er hown room ! — I'll follow. 

{Exit Beale, 1 e. b. h., imitating her pantomime.') 



Scene HI. — Draunng Room, 3 and 5 G. — Table tcith hooks and flowers 
on R. H. L. ; 2 chairs, sofa oti l. H. ; 2 chairs on L. h. — Music. — 
Cotillon. — The sunset and chapel spire seen through the bay win- 
dow, in fiat. — Lordly loalking apart with Hawthorne. 

Lm-d. Isn't that good old-fashioned dance better than the grim 
weddings they get up nowadays ? Weeping relatives — dramatic 
prayers — Sexton in kids — Herald Reporter. But you were speak- 
ing of our poor friends at the cottage. {Walks apart tcith Haw- 
thorne. As the music ceases, and the dancers pair off and promenade y 

Enter Yernon, 1 e. l. h. Hawthorne mixes with the dancers. 

Ver, {Apjiroaching Lordly, ivho is looking through the window.) 
Glorious sunset ! eh, George ? 

Lord. {Pointing out through windoic.) The sun is a great painter, 
Yernon. See how those colors are put in ; Claude never did that. 



SCENE III.] Mary's birthday. 33 

Mark the bare branches of that distant tree against the after-glow ; 
it is like the tracery of the Alhambra. How well you look ! 

Ver. And how well Ifeel ! But you, you are muffled up in your 
sorrow like a Spaniard in his cloak. I swear I saw you brush oJ0F a 
tear as I came m. There must be no more tears to-day. I am so 
full of joy, that I cannot brook a sign of sorrow. It seems to me 
that all the trees should blossom and all the birds trill out a wedding 
chorus. 

Lord. You have reason to be glad. 

Ver. I never knew till now what good reason. I am oveflowing 
with gladness. How glorious it will be — everlastingly with her ! — ■ 
how we shall listen to the hounds together ! — what hecatombs of 
birds I shall slaughter ! And, brother, only think of it — no more 
poetry — no more Casa Guidi windows — no more Doras — I'll put 
them to death ! — and no more misunderstandings. Reason to be 
glad ? I have reason to go mad with joy ! 

Lord. You puzzle me with your raptures. However, youth is 
always a riddle to manhood. I scarcely comprehend your excessive 
mirth. 

Ver. Blind as a mole, I have just recovered my sight — is not 
that motive enough for merriment ? Do you know I thought you 
loved Mary- — thought you were surrendering her to me, because you 
felt yourself too old to keep her for yourself — thought 

Lord. {Deeply moved.') Vernon ? 

Ver. He loves her ! (aside.) — Don't frown on me, brother — I 
see now how absurd it was. The idea — you of all other men — you 
wrapped up in your books and papers — your verses and accounts — 
you condescending to love any body ? And yet I was mopmg — mis- 
erable — pestering myself about your self-sacrifice for me. Well, 
it has pleased Heaven to open my eyes, and I am in this ecstasy, be- 
cause I now know that nobody's going to be killed by misunder- 
standings,. 

Enter Mary and Alice, and after them, move in the rear, Beale and 

Jane. 

Mary. {Gayly.) Mr. Hawthorne, I shall ever thank you for 
your care of my father's legacy. That letter has made this match. 
(To Lordly.) Did you not anticipate the festival of this evening, 
when you gave me these gems this morning ? {Pointing to her brace- 
lets.) 

Lord. {Taking her apart.) No, but I did when I ventured to 
make you another gift. Vernon is a generous, extravagant dog — 
and as I shall be abroad — many years perhaps — well, this deed 
(you can fill in the trustee's name — I left a blank) — this deed 
{producing it) will enable you to keep the axe from these trees 
around us. 

Mary. {Taking the deed.) You mean that this paper makes 
Domewood mine ? 

Lord. I shall only stipulate for my library, in case we ever meet 
again. 



34 mahy's birthday. [act hi, 

Mary. We cannot fail to meet again. I shall wait m one spot for 
your coming! (^The tolling of the chapel bell heard in the distance, 
and commotion among the guests. A pause of astonishment, during 
which the tolling continues.') Hear that music, George. The bells you 
gave the chapel, my first birthday at Domewood. 

Lord. A knell ? Stop it, Beale, (exit Beale,) and bid them chime 
a wedding peal, 

Haic. I Avas not aware of any funeral. They must be tolling for 
some departed public man. 

Jane. More 'errors. 

Ver. (^Merrilg.} Bridal bell, 

Or rising knell, 
All the same, 

'*•■ Save in name. (^T7ie toUitig ceases, ') 

There's poetry for you, George, impromptu. Can yo-a beat it ? 

Mary. {To Lordly.) Do you remember how you served the 
verses? {Tearing the deed.') We are even now. ComCy Yernon, 
{Exte)iding her hand.') 

Ver. One word in your ear. Excuse us, George. {Leading her 

forward.') You had a conversation with Alice 

Mary. Has she betrayed me ? 

'^^er. I overheard it. {Aside.) Jane shan't suffer. Yau perceive 
that this mockery cannot proceed ; you must decline my hand ; you 
must stop this ceremony. 

Mary. Let it go on. I will learn to love you. I will do for you 
all that woman can do for the man she loves. I will watch your 
sickness, cheer your sorrow, share your pleasures. You know not 
what joy, what beauty, I can throw around your life, 

'i'^er. It matters not so much for me. But I begin to love you, 
Mary ; and I love that knightly, unselfish brother of mme ; and I 
mean to save you both from this abyss of your own creation \, I mean 
to make two hearts supremely happy ; I mean to make your bii-th- 
day holy, and not accursed. If you do not speak, I must. 

Mary. Yeruon, Yernon, for God''s sake, s-pare me. 

Ver. Reject me, or I must reject you. 

Mary. {Clingitig to him.) Yernon, you are a man ; you cannot 
know a woman's agony of shame ; but by your manhood, spare her 
weakness. Come ! they are watching us — his eyes are on us. 
Come, my brother, my husband, spurn me not from you. I am yours. 

Lord. {Advancing, n.) "What is this ? 

Ver. L. Nothing you may not hear. Closer, brother. From my 
birth you have been my benefactor. I cannot remember the day 
that has not brought me some token of your love ; within an hour 
you have enriched me with half your estate. I am about to dis- 
charge the debt, with interest. I am about to give you something 
better than fortune, something holier than friendship — a true wo- 
man's heart. Take her ; she is yours. 

Mary, l No, I am ready, Yernon — ready. {As she totters^ 
Lordly catches her.) 

Lord. Have you given me a corpse ? {Betiding mer herJ) Mr» 



SCENE III.] Mary's birthday. 35' 

Hawthorne — Alice — support her. {Sternly confronting Vernon.) 
I forewarned you of this. 

Ver. Blow my brains out. I deserve it. "What have I done ? I 
meant to bless her. Have I killed her ? 

Lord, Calm yourself. It happens well that this house is still 
mine. I desire you to leave it at once — forever. You and I, sir, 
are henceforth strangers. 

Ver, Something is choking me. I cannot speak. Brother, I 
have saved you from a murder ! 

Lord. {Pointing to her.') By committing it yourself ? 

Ver. Hear me, George ; brother, hear me. The misunderstand- 
ing that was killing her was your blindness. For you, for you alone 
have her health and youth been wasted. To please you, to do your 
bidding, she promised to be mine. Take her to your heart; she 
would have died at your com.mand. There stands the witness to her 
words. {Pointing to Alice.) 

Lord, {Violently grasping her arm.) Girl, is this true? Answer. 
{She botes.) 

Ver. Don't stand there cowering and trembling. Lift her to your 
heart. 

Lord. Lift her to my heart — lift her with these manacled hands — 
with these fettered fingers ? Don't you see the chain I wear ? Don't 
you see the print of the iron on my wrist, its rust in my soul ? {In 
a whisper.') My xcife lives ! 

Ver. Lives ! 

Adam, {Without.') Dead, dead, dead ! 

{Enter Adam, supported by Beale.) 

Dead, dead ! They lie there side by side. I tolled the bell for them. 
How I love to toll ! Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! {Feebly attempting to 
toll.) Who can toll like Adam ? Dmg, dong ! ding, dong ! 

Lord. Gently, Beale ; he's dying. Vernon, lay him carefully on 
the lounge. — {To Beale.) Is it as he says ? 

Beale. I found him a tollin' away, and 'e 'ad reason, for all was 
hover with both. 

Lord. {Approaching Mary, tcJio has risen, a7id is leaning on Alice's 
shoulder.) I have loved you for years, humbly, truly, tenderly, in 
spite of reason, in spite of fate. This is my one remaining secret — 
I lay it at your feet. 

Beale. {To Jane.) It will 'ardly be necessary, Jane, to pack 'is 
trunk to-night. 

Jane. Look at the patriarch, Beale ; he's on his feet again. 

Adam. {Rising between Vernon and Hawthorne.) The mist 
breaks ; the lead melts. Mr. Lordly here ! Quick, quick ! {Sink- 
itig back.) 

Lord. {Advancing to him with Mary.) Death's benediction — 
returning reason. 

Ada^n. It is you. Yes, I know you ; there is but one such face ; 
you are older than you were. Ah me — when — hoAV long — how 
long ago ! What a night — what a long, dark night since then ! 



36 Mary's birthday. [act hi. 

Haw, He begins to wander again. 

Adam. My wanderings are over. One straight path now, Mr. 
Hawthorne, the path you taught me. — (To Lordly.) Let them fall 
back — fall back — all but you — you and her. {Taking Mary's 
hand^ She looks so like Dead, dead, dead ! (Lordly mo- 
tions them, bacJc, and he and Mary group themselves around the lounge.') 
{Suddenly.') Do you know what drove me mad ? They loved each 
other before you knew her. I coaxed her and cursed her till she 
took you for your gold. That's why I'm mad, and she's dead. 
Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! 

Lard. The last sparks of his life are throwing light on mine. 

Adam. Let me take her your pardon ; she's waiting for it in the 
grave. I promised, yes, I swore I would bring it. 

Lord. Take it. 

Adam. (Raising his head.) Stay ; it is all so clear now. O, this 
peace, this painless peace — this perfect light ! I know you all — all. 
And you, (to Mary,) you were a child then ; and now — yes, there's 
your veil — and now a bride. Whose ? I know, I know ; answer 
not. IMr. Hawthorne, join their hands, I dare not. The light 
is dying ; quick, quick ; thus. Do not toll for me ; let me hear 
the chimes. — (To Lordly.) The chimes you gave us, ah, so long 
ago ; the chimes I rang on our first feast of Mary's birthday ! Hark, 
hark ! I hear them — the chimes of Mary's birthday. (Feebly mov- 
ing his hands. IHes as if asleep. The chime of distant hells. Tableau. 
Curtain.') 



l&Ja'22 



Spencer's Boston Theatre. 



Price, 12 1-2 Cents, each. Ten for One Bollar. 
BOUNO VOLUMKS. SI. 



VOL. XVI. 

121 The Wonder, 

122 The Rights of Man. 
[■Si lU.bfil Kliiiiiet, 

124 My nushaiui's Ghost. 

125 Fighting by Proxy, [Game 
12(> Two Can Play 'at that 

127 Uiiiirotei-tcd Female, 

128 Green Bushes. 

VOL. XVII. i 

129 Flowers of the Forest, 

130 Forty and Fifty, 

131 Who Stole the Pocketbook 

132 A baihelor of Arts, 

133 My 8on l)ijina, 

134 The Midni-ht Banqnet. 

135 Unwamintalile Intrusion. 

136 Mr. & Mrs. White. 

VOL, XVIIl. 

137 A Quiet Family, 

133 Husband of an hDur, j 

139 Love's Labour's Lost, ' 

140 The Naiad Queen. i 

141 Caprice. j 

142 Cool as a Cucumber, | 

143 Sudden Thoughts, 

144 Jumbo Jum. 

VOL. XIX. 

145 The Cradle of Liberty, 

146 A Blighted Being, 

147 Little Toddlekins, 
143 The Lost Ship, 

149 A Lover by Proxy, [Pail, 

150 Maid with the Milking 

151 Country Squire, 

152 Perplexing Predicament. 

VOL. XX. 

153 Fraud and its Victimf?, 

154 Dr. Dil worth. 
153 Out to Nurse, 

156 Putnam. 

157 The King and Deserter, 

158 A Lucky Hit, 

159 The Dowager, 

160 La Fiammina, 



VOL. XXI. 

161 A Hard Struggle, 

162 Gwimxeth Vaughan, 

163 Thr Love Knot, 

164 White Lies. 

165 Dreams of Delusion, 

166 The Shaker Lovers, 

167 Ticklish Times, [Tiger, 

168 Twenty Minutes with a 

VOL. XXII. 

169 Miralda or the Justice of 

170 Heads or Tails. [Tacon, 

171 A Soldiers' Courtship, 

172 Lavater, or Not a bad 

173 The .Noble He.irt, [Judge, 

174 Corijlanas, 

175 The Winter's Tale, 

176 Servants by Legacy, 

VOL. XXIII. 

177 Eveleen Wilson, 

178 Nick Whiffles, 

179 The Queen's Heart, 

180 Dying for Love, 

181 1 he i ii-ate's Legacy, 

182 An Alarming Sacrifice, 

183 The Valet de Sham, 

184 Nicholas Nickloby. 

VOL. XXIV. 

185 The Last of the Pigtails, 

186 King Rene's Daughter, 

187 The Grotto Nymph. 
183 The Charcoal Burner, 

189 Adelgitha, 

190 A Devlish Gaod Joke, 

191 A Twice Told Tale, 

192 Pas de Fascination. 

VOL. XXV. 

193 Senor Valijnte. 

194 Faust and Marguerite, 

195 Rm-al Felicity, 
198 Americans Abroad, 

197 The Olio, Part 1, 

198 The Olio, " 2, 

199 Shakspeare Proverbs, 

200 By Mrs. Cowdea Clarke, 



VOL. XXVI. 

20] The B.)y Martyrs. 

2!»2 The Cynic or Mary's 

203 r Birthday, 

204 

205 

206 

207 

208 



VOL, XXVIL 



209 

210 
211 
212 
213 
214 
215 
216 



VOL. xxvin. 



217 
218 
219 
220 
221 
222 
223 
224 



VOL. XXIX. 



225 

226 
227 
228 
229 
230 
231 
233 



233 
234 
235 
236 
237 
238 
239 
240 



VOIi. XXX. 



Agent for LACY'S ACTING DRAMAS, 

AHB TUB BRITISH THEATRE. 



128 Washington Street, np Stairs. 



Acfins" Plavs tor Sale at IS Cents £ac1i. 



Alonzo the Brave, 

Alive and Merry, 
; As Like as Two Peas. 
I Allow me to Apologize, 

■ Angel of the Attic, 
Another Glass, 
Anchor of H^pe. 

, Aunt Charlotte's Maid, 
' Bird in the Hand, A 

■ Belphegor, 

\ Botheration, 
i Bottle Imp. 
, Brother and Sister, 
j Bathing, 

Brother Ben, 

Bluejackets, 

Brazen Drum, 

Birth Place of Podgers, 

Bachelor's Buttons. 
I Bride of Abydos, Burlesque, 
i Bonnie Fish Wife, 
i Chevalier St. George, 
! Capital Match, A 

■ Court BeautieSj 
Cozy Conpie, 

; Caught in his own Trap, 

Cheap Excursion, A 
i Cabinet Question, A 
' Com-Jer of Lyons, 

■ Cavalier. 
Curious Case. A 

; Conqufjring Game, 
; Children cf the Castle, 
Catherine Uow.ird, 

■ Child of the "Wreck, 

■ Caught by the E;irs, 
Deep, Deep Sea, 
]»i-t:tm Spi-ctre, 
Day in Piuii, 

i loubtful Vidory , A 

Death llank. 

Don't judge by Appearances, 

Done on Both Sides, _ 
: Double Faced People, 
'. Day of Beckoning, 
: Desperate Game, 

Discreet Princess. 

Domestic Economy, 

El Ilyder, 
: Every Body's Friend, 

Electra, 
: Fortunio, 

Fire Eater, 

Four Sisteri, 

Fast Coacli, 

Fast Train, 

Frederick of Prussia, 

Fearful Tragedy, in 7 Dials, 
I Fra Diavolo, Bm-lesque, 
■: Governor's Wife, 
I Give a Dog a bad Xame, 
! Game of PiompS, 
I Gaspardo the Gondolier, 
i Going to the Derby, 
: Good Kun for it, A 
i Good Little Wife, 

Gipsey Farmer, 

■ Gold, 

Great Gun Trick, 



Husband of my Heart, 

H me Again 

How Stout you're Getting, 

Hazard of the Die, 

Housekeeper, 

Hopeless Passion, 

Heury V, 

Harold Hawke, 

I'll be your Second, 

I'll write to the Times, 

Intrigue, \ 

Inn Keeper's Daughter, j 

Invasion of Russia, 
' Ici On Pjirle Franeais. 

Jessy Vere, 

Jersey Girl. 

John Jones, ■ 

John Dobbs, 

Jew's Daughter. 
! Jeanette's Wedding, 
: Jackets of Bin?, , 

Lesson in Love, A ' 

Life's Trial A 

Lillian the Show Girl, 
; Lillian Gervaise, 
: Lucille, 

i Love and Charity, 
i Lucky Stars, 
j Lilly Dawson, 
! Lost Diamonds. 
; Loan of a Wife, 
. Leading Strings, 
! Living too Fast, 
; Locked Our, 
i Louise de LigneroHes, 
! Lovers Quarrels 
' Little Savage, 

Lalla Rookli, 
: Loiliinvar, 

Match Making, 

My Precious Betsy, 

My Wife's Diar^', 

My Wife 's Come, 

My Wife's Dentist, 

My Aunt's Husband, 

Marble Bride, 

M anager in Distress, 

Marriage a Lottery, 

Mephiitophiles. 

Midnight Watch, 

Nabob f :»r an Horn*, 

Kightin the Bastile, 

Nothing Venture Nothing Win 

Nine Points of the Law, 

Nice Firm, A 

Only a Clod. 
. One Hour, 
I Old House at Home, 
: Only a Halfpenny, 
; Olympic Pvcvels, 
; Olympic Devils. 

Platonic Attachments. 

Post of Honor, 

Phantom Breakfast, 
. Peter Bell, 

Plot and Passion, 

Petticoat Government, 
\ Practical Man, 
Pair of Pigeons, 



Party Wall, 

Pluto and Proserpine, 

Pierette, 

Porter's Knot; 

Rose of Corbeil, 

Piomantic Idea, 

Rival Pages, " 

Rights and Wrongs of Woman 

Roll of the Dram, 

Rail Road Station, 

Rose of Castile, 

Roebuck, 

Rule of Tliree. 

Storm in a Tea Cup, 

Secret Agent, 

She would and she w.->uld Not, 

Sunshine through the Clouds, 

Spirit of the Rhine, 

Sarah the Creole, 

Spitfire, 

Serve him Right. 

Separate Maintenance, 

Samuel in search of Himsel C 

Stock Exchange, 

Splendid Investment, 

Station House, 

Sat anas, 

Sultan, 

'Twas I. 

T^ice Killed, 

Tufelhausen, 

Take care of Dowb. 

Two Gay Deceis'ers, 

Travellers' Room, 

Thirty-Three next Birth Day, 

Tide of Time, 

Three Cackoos, 

Very'Suspicious, 

Violet, 

Village Tale, 

Venus in Arms, 

Vandyke Brown, 

Without Incumbrances. 

Wedding Breakfast, 

Where there's a Will there's a 

Way, 
Waterman, 
Woodman's Hut, 
Woman I Ad ^re. 
Woman's Love, 
Wondeiful Woman, 
Wicked Wife, 
Wreckers Daughter, 
Walter Brand, 
Who'll lend me a Wile, 
Wolf and Lamb, 
^^^)ite Farm, 
Wra. Tell Travestie. 
Was I to Blame, 
Wilful Mm-der, [ton 

What will they say at Bromp' 
Will Watch, 
What have I Done, 
Waiting for an Omuibas, 
Which of the Two, 
Young and Handsome, 
Youcg England, 
Your likeness One Shilling, 
Young Mother. 



Ccrner of Water and "Washington Streets, (up stairs) 



